[h3]Ranch House[/h3]

[color=#2d50ff]“Toby!”[/color] Any hopes of resolving the situation hopefully died with the wink of metal around the empath’s throat, and the vicious, almost blood-hungry cry from the man who had taken Eld’s place. Bellataire’s men were advancing. From where she stood now, Dawn could see them closing in- on the quartet that had been stranded outside, on the basement, on the house itself. Her nails peeled away what remained of the windowsill’s paint. As it stood, they were looking hopelessly, helplessly, to be at the slaver’s mercy. 

Although there was one thing left that they could do. 

In a look of solemn resignation, Dawn turned her gaze downward, releasing her vice grip on the window. She swallowed, although, as she stepped away, there was a certain grim determination that had fastened itself into her chest. The plan was not a foolproof one by any means, nor was it a permanent solution. If it failed, there would be no doubt that all of them would find themselves collared and put to heel. Still, anything seemed better than just waiting around for Bellataire’s forces.

Rushing downstairs, Dawn swung into the halls and began to glance into each and every room that she happened to pass- sometimes shoving the doors in with such force that they nearly slammed into the wall. It was in the fifth room that she passed that she found what she was looking for, and, skidding to a halt, Dawn slipped into the bathroom where one Dutch Dalton lay unconscious on the grime-smeared floor. 

That certainly made things difficult.

Dawn knelt beside the man, carefully rolling him onto his back before shaking him by the shoulders. [color=#2d50ff]“Dutch. Can you hear me?”[/color] She was half-tempted to splash water on his face, but their main source of unsullied water came from the well outside, and she wasn’t about to put anything contaminated on the greaser’s face from the sink. Shaking would have to do the trick. 

Hopefully.